Not Where He Eats
by happycabbage75
Summary: Sam and Dean are asked to take care of a little problem with a dog… Or, when Hamlet met Supernatural.
1. Chapter 1

**Not Where He Eats**

Disclaimer: The show's not mine. The boys aren't mine. Very stingy of Kripke considering it's Christmastime and all.

Summary: Sam and Dean are asked to take care of a little problem with a dog…

_This originally appeared in _Brotherhood 6, _a beautifully put together fanfic collection if you can get your hands on it. The story was written over a year ago, so there are older issues afoot here than the current post-resurrection problems._

Chapter One

* * *

_The need we have to use you did provoke our hasty sending._

_- Hamlet, Act II, Scene iii_

Dean sat down in the booth and sucked in a pained breath.

Sam halted his movement to take his own seat and reached a hand toward him. "You okay?" he asked quietly.

Dean waved Sam away, his jaw tightly clenched. Freakin' thing had clawed him right across his back, and the gun he'd tucked into his waistband had rubbed across the injury. Dean surreptitiously reached back, pulled the gun out of his jeans, and shoved it into his jacket pocket.

He knew he hadn't been quite stealthy enough, however, when he heard the tiniest gasp from a booth across the aisle. Dean looked up to see a man in his forties eyeing him warily. He was wearing a dress shirt and tie, and looked just uptight enough to call the cops.

"I've got a permit," Dean said nonchalantly. He didn't, but Mr. Uptight didn't need to know that. The man just kept staring at him until finally Dean raised an annoyed eyebrow and cleared his throat. "Is there a problem?"

"No," the man answered, quickly turning back to his lunch and studiously keeping his gaze focused on it.

Dean just snorted. Nerves of solid steel on that one. Dean wasn't even wearing his whole annoyed face, just the one eyebrow.

"You know, you could've left it in the car," Sam said reproachfully.

"Murphy's Law," Dean replied. "I'm not walking around without one." Not to mention he really did feel naked without a gun, especially these days. The way they lived their lives wasn't exactly conducive to being relaxed and easygoing. Armed was good. Armed to the teeth was better.

"You really think somebody's gonna walk in here in broad daylight and rob a place that probably doesn't have more than a couple hundred bucks in the drawer?"

"It could happen."

"Yeah, and a bee could fly out of the flowers on the counter and sting us to death, or a sinkhole could open and swallow the entire diner. It's just lunch, man. Not World War III."

"I think the odds are a little higher of a robbery, but I've got some bug spray in the trunk." Dean nodded thoughtfully. "It's one of those that'll spray, like, ten feet. Good catch, Sammy."

Sam glared at him, though a smile was suspiciously peeking at the corner of his mouth. "You're such a jerk."

"I'm a well-armed jerk who's prepared to save your unarmed ass."

"Do asses have arms?" Sam asked, completely deadpan.

"Now who's the jerk?"

"It's a serious academic question."

Dean just snorted and picked up the menu sitting at the end of the table. He was deciding between a burger and a burger when he had the uncomfortable feeling of being watched.

"The dude in the next booth staring at me again?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam answered without looking.

"Great." Dean threw the menu back down. "You wanna go?"

"I'm hungry."

"We'll get it to go."

"We've been driving forever. It's why we stopped," Sam said plaintively.

"Fine." Dean stood back up. "Order me something. I'm going to the bathroom. Call me when he's gone."

"Take your time," Sam said, adding a long-suffering sigh.

Dean headed toward the other side of the restaurant. He walked into the bathroom and was pleased to find it was at least semi-clean. It was hard to trust a restaurant with a dirty bathroom.

Dean's cell phone rang, and he quickly pulled it out of his pocket, looking at the screen first for the caller ID. "Hey, Bobby, what's up?"

"_Hey, Dean. I've, uh…"_ Bobby cleared his throat nervously. _"You boys all right?"_

Dean's mind slowed at the uncertainty in Bobby's voice. Bobby wasn't known for being tongue-tied. He was more of a here's-the-ugly-truth-so-deal-with-it kind of guy. "What's going on?" he asked worriedly.

"_A friend of mine sent me somethin'. Somethin' for you,"_ Bobby said after another pause.

"Tell me it's the new _Barbie Dream House_ I ordered."

"_No,"_ Bobby said, not even a hint of amusement showing.

Dean sighed. He knew it wasn't good, whatever it was. Bobby didn't call him just to chat. "Spit it out, Bobby."

"_It's a package. Dean, it's from your dad."_

Dean's brain stuttered to a halt, and he felt his heart contract painfully in his chest. "Dad…he's been gone for months now, Bobby."

"_You think I don't know that?"_ Bobby asked irritably. _"The guy who sent it to me… He was supposed to get it to you if something happened to your dad. He just now heard that John died."_

"Why didn't he find me and Sam?" Dean asked suspiciously.

He heard Bobby's dry chuckle on the other end of the line. _"You two aren't exactly easy to find, ya know. You keep a lower profile than Jimmy Hoffa."_

"I've always kinda wanted to be Jimmy Buffet."

"_Why am I not surprised?"_ Bobby chuckled again. _"So, this guy, he heard I'd been working with you and sent the package to me. You want me to hold on to it?_ _Or do you want me to send it to you?"_

Once again, Dean hesitated, unsure how to react. Dad. Bobby had something from Dad. "Can you tell what it is?"

"_Looks like a DVD. Homemade."_

"He sent us a video?" Bobby grunted in the affirmative, and Dean quickly came to a decision. "We'll be at the Knight's Inn in Elsmere, Kentucky." Dean had seen one a couple of blocks back. "Send it to the motel."

"_Will do,"_ Bobby said, and disconnected.

Dean opened his eyes and was temporarily disoriented to find himself in a bathroom. He'd involuntarily closed them while talking to Bobby to block out everything but what he was hearing.

Dad. Dad had left something for him. Them, Dean quickly amended.

He started when the bathroom door behind him opened. To his dismay, it was the businessman who'd seen the gun. The guy did a quick scan, and Dean could tell he was making sure no one else was present. When he was satisfied they were alone, he locked the door.

Dean immediately backed up a step so he'd have plenty of room to maneuver. This was so not good.

The man was studying him, and Dean took a quick personal inventory. He was probably looking a little rougher around the edges than normal. He had a black eye and a gash in his hairline that was big enough to still be visible. The guy couldn't see the rest thanks to Dean's clothes, but claw-boy had tried to flay him alive and Dean really wasn't in the mood for a creep bothering him right now. Not that he was ever in the mood for a creep bothering him.

"Hello," the man said.

"Not interested." Dean gave the man the full weight of his glare.

"Look, I was just-"

"_Not. Interested_," Dean said again. "Go away."

"You're not from around here, right?"

"No," Dean answered through clenched teeth. If this was some pervy sort of pick-up, he was going to kill Sam for not letting him leave.

"Good. Very good."

"Yeah, it's good. 'Cause I'm leaving." The man put a hand out to stop him, but quickly withdrew it after Dean nearly growled at him.

"Your gun looked a little fancier than normal," the man observed. "You help me out, I'll make it worth your while. You look like maybe you're the kind of guy who could take care of… problems."

"Problems?" Seeing red, Dean instinctively put his hand into his pocket. The feel of the gun's smooth grip had a calming effect on him as always, but the man fell back a step, banging into the door.

"Whoa, whoa," he said, holding out his hands as if to ward Dean off.

"Do I look like a hit man to you?"

"No," the man said, looking half-horrified, half-terrified. "No, I… It's not like that."

Dean had actually met a hit man once. Or at least he was pretty sure he was a hit man. He'd been a real nice guy. Dressed kind of like it was casual Friday at the office. Dean imagined he was real nice even while he killed you. He'd been kinda freaky that way.

"I'm in a diner having lunch. You see I've got a gun, you follow me into a bathroom, and you say you'll make it worth my while." Dean realized his voice was getting louder and quickly dropped it back down. "So you tell me what it's like."

"A dog!" the man hurried to say. "I need you to kill a dog!"

"A dog," Dean said, blinking in disbelief. "You want me to shoot a dog for you."

"Yes." The man rubbed a hand over his face and let out a loud breath.

They both jumped at a knock on the door. _"Dean, you all right in there?"_ Sam must have seen the guy follow him and gotten worried.

"Unlock it," Dean ordered. "He's with me."

The man hurried to open the door, probably glad to have a witness in case Dean decided to kill him. Sam shoved it open, forcing the man to stumble back. He looked up and up, and paled further at facing a very angry-looking giant.

"Everything okay?" Sam asked, not taking his eyes off the man. He moved to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Dean.

"This guy followed me in here to ask me to shoot his dog."

"He _what_?"

"Not _my_ dog," the man corrected. "_A_ dog."

Sam and Dean just shared a look. "Why don't we take this back outside?" Sam suggested.

"No," the man said firmly, blocking the exit, and they both stopped in surprise. "No one can see me with you."

"Okay," Sam said, drawing the syllables out.

Dean sighed and scratched a hand through his hair, suddenly exhausted. This guy was annoying him, his back hurt, his head hurt, they'd been driving half the night, and he just wanted to go to the motel and crash. "Dude, just call Animal Control."

"It's my wife's dog," the man confessed. "I'll pay you. You take care of this, and no one will know I asked you to do it."

Dean just grunted and shook his head, while Sam looked toward the ceiling as if asking for help from above. "Look, mister, your domestic problems are _your_ domestic problems," Dean said.

"You'd be doing me a huge favor." The man's tone had turned almost cajoling. "The dog's been acting weird for days now, and he just keeps getting weirder. My wife loves him, though. She won't hear a word against him. You just do a drive-by, take care of the dog, and that's that. Problem solved."

"Plausible deniability." Dean snorted. "You wouldn't happen to be in politics, would you, buddy?"

"How'd you know?" The man actually straightened to correct his posture.

"Lucky guess."

"What did you mean by 'the dog's acting weird'?" Sam asked.

"Dude, we're not dogcatchers." Dean gestured toward the door. "Let's just go."

"Weird how?" Sam persisted.

"Ever since my brother died, he's just been…I don't know…strange. Barking at things that aren't there, twitchy… He was okay before, but he won't let me within ten feet of him now."

Dean's heart sank and he tiredly ran a hand over his face. He couldn't even go to the bathroom now without it turning into a disaster. It had always been sort of a safe haven. "How'd your brother die?" he asked.

"What?" the man asked, taken aback. "Heart attack. What difference does that make?"

"Probably nothing," Sam said. Nevertheless, he shot a quick look at Dean asking, _You think it's something_?

Dean gave a tiny shrug of _maybe_. "It was your brother's dog?"

"Yes."

"I thought you said it was your wife's dog," Sam said, frowning.

"I did. It was their dog."

"Holy crap. You married your sister-in-law?" Dean almost laughed.

"It just sort of happened," the man said, glowering at Dean. "I was asked to take his place as acting mayor until the next election, and we spent a lot of time together while I got everything in order after Roy's death."

"You took his job, too?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "And now you're hiring a hit on his dog? Man, was I wrong. Y'got nerve, I'll give ya that."

"Dean," Sam said, trying to curtail him.

"Right." Dean coughed to cover that he was still in awe of the brass on the guy. "The dog."

"Give us your address and we'll take a look. If we think something needs to be done, we'll take care of it," Sam said.

The man nodded and pulled out a business card from his wallet. "Cooper Gentry," Sam read. "And your wife's name is…"

"Connie."

"How much are we talking here?" Dean asked suddenly. "For taking care of your little problem?"

Mr. Gentry shifted uncomfortably back and forth on his feet. "I don't know…"

"How much do you have in your wallet?"

"Dean!"

He just looked at Sam, all innocence. "What? He offered!"

"Let's go." Sam actually took his arm and began to pull him toward the door.

"I'll follow in a few minutes," Mr. Gentry said. "It's a little town. I can't be associated with you."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Story of our lives."

They walked back into the diner to see a waitress waving them toward the counter.

"I had her make it to go," Sam said. "Come on. We'll go check out the dog."

* * *

_More tomorrow…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Not Where He Eats**

Summary: Sam and Dean are asked to take care of a little problem with a dog…

_Thank you very much for the reviews. Now on we go!_

Chapter Two

* * *

_Though this be madness, yet there is method in it._

_- Hamlet, Act II, Scene ii_

Sam knocked on the door and waited.

"You believe this place?" Dean said. They were outside the little town, and the massive house was surrounded by trees on the back and sides, while the front was a wide expanse of manicured lawn. The house itself was dark stonework, a huge pile of rocks in house form. "It's like a castle. Except ugly and without all the cool armor and weapons."

"Rich people," Sam said, shrugging it off. "They do weird things to look-"

"Pretentious?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Special."

They both stopped, hearing someone approaching the door. A young woman opened it and smiled pleasantly. She was blonde, maybe twenty years old, dressed casually in a skirt and blouse with her hair pulled back in a ponytail. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, ma'am," Dean said. "We're from Animal Control."

"What?" She looked genuinely surprised. "Oh, you're not the man who was here last time. You're here for a follow-up?"

"Right." Sam gave her his more reassuring smile. "We don't think there's any real problem. We just need to take a look." He shot a glance at Dean. The guy hadn't said anything about Animal Control already checking on the dog. "Just a formality."

"Come in, then," the woman said, her smile wobbling.

They stepped into the foyer to find it was actually a wide central hallway that ran the length of the house, doors leading off on both sides, a large staircase winding up to the second floor at the end of the corridor.

They all turned at the sound of a deep bark, followed by a heavy tread on the steps. A huge lumbering animal came down the stairs and trotted toward them. The woman knelt down and held out her arms, waiting for the oversized animal. It ran to her and licked her face, nearly knocking her over as it playfully bumped into her.

"That's not a dog, it's a moose," Dean observed.

"This is Hamlet," she said, looking up at them, her face clearly glowing. Definitely a dog person, Sam thought.

"Hamlet?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

She looked at him as if he weren't particularly bright. "He's a Great Dane."

"Of course he is." Dean blew out a slow breath.

Sam looked at his brother and decided to make this visit as quick as possible. They'd both been banged around by the claw-kid, but Dean had taken the brunt of it. They really didn't need another hunt quite so soon. "Are you Connie?"

The young woman laughed and stood back up to face them. "My name's Sophie." Hamlet leaned heavily into her side, forcing her to lean back into the dog to stay upright. "I was just looking in on Hamlet. We live next door and my father works for the Gentrys. We're in and out of the house all day. Dad's office is in the back."

"What does he do?"

"He's the farm manager," she said, suspicion creeping into her tone.

"Is it that big a farm?"

"The Gentrys own almost everything around here," she said, looking from one of them to the other. "You guys are from Animal Control and you don't know that?"

Dean cleared his throat. "Sam's new. I'm showing him the ropes today."

She nodded, accepting it at face value. "I don't know why you're here, anyway. Hamlet is the best-natured dog on the planet. Just because…" The woman's voice trailed off, and she gave them a look Sam couldn't quite read.

"We were told he's been a little different since Mr. Gentry's brother died," Sam prodded.

Sophie again knelt, and Sam had the idea it was so that they couldn't see her expression. She got down face-to-face with the dog and put her hands on either side of his gigantic head to scratch his ears. "Poor Hamlet. Roy's death hit him so hard. He was depressed, didn't want to move. Then Mrs. Gentry remarried so quickly and Mr. Gentry moved in here. It was…awkward." Sophie kissed the dog's slobbery muzzle. "My sweet boy just didn't take very well to all the change."

She was using a baby voice as if talking to a small child, and Sam almost laughed at the disgusted look on Dean's face. She kissed the dog again and then stood, smiling. Sam had the feeling Dean wouldn't be hitting on this one. He knew where those lips had been.

"Has the dog been acting out?" Sam asked. "Bitten anyone?"

"Mostly he just sits around all day staring off into space," she said. "He's been barking a little more than he used to. He's been pacing around the house, too, but like I said, he hasn't been very happy since Mr. Gentry moved in. Hamlet doesn't like having another man around vying for Mrs. Gentry's attentions, if you ask me."

"Have you noticed anything else strange in the house?" Dean asked.

"Like what?"

"Strange noises or smells, lights flickering, weird temperature changes…"

Sophie pursed her lips, suspicion showing again. "What are you talking about?"

"They might be setting the dog off," Dean explained, as if that made perfect sense.

"No," she shook her head, "nothing like that. Not that I know of, anyway."

Hamlet's ears perked up and he turned, giving a short bark.

"Someone here, boy?" she asked the dog conversationally.

"Sophie?" The voice came from somewhere at the rear of the house.

"That's my father," she said. "Excuse me a moment." She walked toward the end of the long corridor and disappeared through a door heading off to the right. Surprisingly, the dog remained where he was, although he turned back to face them. Sam had the uncomfortable feeling he was studying them. As if to answer the thought, a low growl issued from the dog's throat.

"Easy there, Cujo," Dean said. "We're just here to check you out." He pulled the EMF meter out of his pocket and turned it on. Almost immediately, it began to whistle and crackle.

Sam closed his eyes in resignation, all hopes for an easy answer flown. "Crap."

"Mr. Gentry just _had_ to send us to check you out," Dean said to the dog, and its growl grew into a full snarl. "And here I thought we were having a polite conversation." Dean put the meter away, and Sam caught him reaching for his gun.

"No, Dean," he said firmly.

"I'm not gonna let him bite me," Dean snapped. "Possessed or not."

"What's going on?" Sam and Dean looked past the dog to see a man approaching them at a near run. "Hamlet, behave yourself!" he ordered. The dog's snarl faded back to merely a low growl, and then that too died away.

"Hamlet, I've got something for you," Sophie called from the door she'd used to leave. The dog's ears perked up and he loped away, following her through the door, which quickly closed behind them.

"Sorry about that," the man said. "Sophie says you two are here to check up on Hamlet?"

Sam nodded, thinking he pitied any real Animal Control officer who tried to deal with the mutt. "He seems to be having some behavioral problems."

"Sophie's working with him," the man said. He was wearing business attire rather than workman's clothes, and Sam guessed he was more manager and less farm. "She loves him, bless her heart, and she'd do about anything for him. Can't say as how I'm comfortable around him since…" The man gave them an odd glance. "Well, I guess you'd know all about that."

"Of course," Sam said. Which meant that of course they didn't have a clue. Mr. Gentry had clearly left out some important details. They were going to have to do some research before this went much further.

"I'm sorry," the man said and held out his hand. "Terrence Harrington, but everyone around here just calls me Terry. Pleased to meet you."

Sam took the offered hand. "Do you think it's safe to leave Hamlet in the house?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Gentry are always so busy that they hardly see the dog. It's Sophie who really cares for him. She says he's fine, but there's definitely something wrong with him. I'd say he was crazy, but sometimes I'd swear he's doing it on purpose to make us nuts."

"It's a dog," Dean said incredulously.

"Makes it even weirder, doesn't it? He was Roy's dog, and Mr. Gentry doesn't want to have to put him down. It would upset Mrs. Gentry terribly. That dog was like their baby before Roy died."

"Is it just Mr. Gentry he's having problems with?" Dean asked.

"Mostly," Terry admitted, "but since the wedding, he's even nipped at Connie a couple of times."

"Okay," Dean said. "Your daughter's with the dog now. Is there a place where we can watch them without the dog knowing? We can gauge their interaction, see how the dog responds to her."

"Sure." Terry waved for them to follow and headed toward the rear of the house. "She took him out back. We can watch from the kitchen window."

They walked into the cavernous kitchen, then followed Terry to a large bay window overlooking the back yard. Sophie was holding a stick, smiling as she waved it playfully. Hamlet was frolicking back and forth, the very picture of a frisky pooch enjoying a bit of play out of doors.

Suddenly, the dog stopped dead in its tracks. It turned its enormous head toward the window where they were standing, and Sam had the sinking feeling the dog knew it was being watched.

Dean was already moving before Sam even realized the situation was going wrong. Hamlet turned back toward Sophie and bared his teeth. He snarled and snapped, and Sophie began backing away. Terry was next out the back door, following Dean and shouting for the dog to get away from his daughter. Sam followed them as fast as his legs would carry him. Hamlet was still snarling and barking, advancing on the now terrified woman. Sam was just abreast of Dean when he saw his brother pull his gun.

The entire world seemed to go into slow motion. The dog reared back in preparation to pounce. Terry shouted. Sophie screamed. Dean put two shots into the ground only inches from the dog's front paws.

The three men came to a halt beside Sophie as Hamlet left at a gallop and disappeared into the trees to one side of the house. Sophie fell to her knees, shaking badly. Terry dropped down beside her and put his arms around his daughter.

"It's okay, honey. It's okay," he murmured, rocking her gently.

"Are you all right?" Dean asked, crouching down beside them. "Did he bite you?"

Sophie shook her head. "No."

Dean turned to her father. "I thought you said he liked her," he said angrily.

"He just… He just went nuts," Sophie almost sobbed. "I don't know what set him off."

Dean looked up at Sam and they shared a glance. The dog hadn't taken kindly to being spied on. That a dog recognized it was being spied on was bad news in and of itself.

Terry was staring at the gun Dean still had in hand. "You always carry that?" he asked with a nervous laugh.

Dean smiled. "Nah. I've got a shotgun I like a little better. Thought it might be a bit much for this job." He stood and tucked the gun away, only a slight grimace showing as he rubbed against the injuries to his back. Sam made a mental note to check on them when they got to the motel.

"Why don't you help Sophie inside," Sam suggested. "If you don't mind, my partner and I are going to get some supplies and then we'll be back, okay?"

"What are you going to do?" Terry asked.

"The dog is clearly dangerous," Sam said, putting on his official voice. FBI, Animal Control, it was all the same in the end. It was the voice that said, _I'm in charge and you're not_. "We need to make sure he can't hurt anyone else."

"It can't wait 'til morning?" Terry asked. "It's almost dark."

"Tell me about it," Dean muttered.

"Dogs are pack animals. He's going to come back here, sooner rather than later, to be with people he knows," Sam said, ignoring his brother, no matter how right he was to be worried. If the dog was acting up now, darkness was only going to make the situation worse.

Terry just nodded and helped a still-dazed Sophie to her feet. "Our house is over there." He pointed to a smaller home near the back of the property beyond a swimming pool and tennis court. "I'm going to take Sophie home, then I'll let the Gentrys know what's happened. I'm sure it will be fine with them if you keep watch for Hamlet. You just can't let a crazy dog run around loose like that."

They headed toward their home, while Sam and Dean headed back to the Impala.

"What now?" Dean asked.

"You got any ideas on how to exorcise a dog?" Sam asked.

"We sure it's possessed?"

"You got anything better?"

"It's just really smart and really pissed off?" Dean suggested.

"Sure it is," Sam said skeptically, then cocked his head to one side, curiosity getting the better of him. "There a reason you didn't just shoot him, by the way?"

Dean shrugged. "We can't figure out what's going on if the dog's dead. Whatever it is, it could just go grab the Chihuahua down the road and be back here in ten minutes."

"That the only reason?"

"What else would it be?"

"Those puppy eyes got to you, didn't they?" Sam grinned.

"Shut up."

"Dean Winchester, slayer of anything and everything, couldn't bring himself to shoot a puppy dog."

Dean snorted. "Puppy, my ass. That thing's practically a horse."

"You couldn't shoot the dog with the big sad puppy eyes."

He gave Sam a nasty grin. "You're right. He reminded me of you when you're having a 'maybe I'm evil' moment. You get this look. You kinda scrunch up your face like you've been sucking on a lemon and either beg me to help you or beg me to shoot you. It's always a toss-up."

Sam didn't reply, not sure what would come out if he opened his mouth. Dean wasn't really joking, and Sam could see the tension in his shoulders, felt the sudden tension in his own. _Rough year_ didn't even begin to cover what they were having. It was a rough decade.

"I didn't shoot the dog because it's not his fault," Dean said, and Sam could tell from his tone he was trying to apologize for the too-honest remark. In a totally roundabout Dean sort of way, of course. "Dog's being used. You don't blame the victim."

Sam sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, where a headache seemed to be forming in record time. His brother had a gift for apologizing and still managing to give him a smack upside the head. Just a gentle reminder of why Dean did what he did, no matter what Sam said. "Come on. Let's find a motel. We can get an hour of sleep before we have to hunt down the Hound of the Baskervilles."

* * *

_More tomorrow…_


	3. Chapter 3

**Not Where He Eats**

Summary: Sam and Dean are asked to take care of a little problem with a dog…

_Thanks so much for the reviews, especially to those I can't respond to. Now… Hamlet had run off into the woods and Sam and Dean were figuring out just what to do about that…_

Chapter Three

* * *

_I will watch tonight; Perchance 'twill walk again._

_- Hamlet, Act I, Scene iii_

"I can't believe we're on a stakeout. For a dog."

Sam snorted. "We've done weirder things."

"True." Dean shrugged. "And it _is_ a possessed dog."

"There is that."

Silence filled the car as they sat watching the house. They were parked well away, near the tree line, but also well within sight of the Gentrys' residence. It was even more of a monstrosity than Sam remembered. The front was all dark stonework, the rear of the residence a double-storied verandah held up by thick rocky columns, and spotlights illuminated the exterior of the home in all its ugly glory.

"So," Dean cleared his throat, a nervous tick that immediately caught Sam's attention, "Bobby called earlier." He paused. "While we were in the diner."

"Yeah?" Sam was careful to keep his tone even. Bobby calling could mean any of a million things, but whatever it was, it had his brother flustered.

"Yeah, he said he's got something for us." Dean rubbed a hand over his chin, glancing over at Sam and then looking away again, eyes glued to the house.

"Don't tell me. He figured out how to make rock-salt rounds for a bazooka."

Dean snorted, but it was more for form than anything else. "Dad left a video for us. A buddy was supposed to send it to us if something happened to him. Bobby's gonna mail it."

Sam blinked, his brain coming to a screeching halt. A video. Dad had left them a video. Saying their dad was tight-lipped was like saying Jack the Ripper had a few issues, which made it even more amazing that he'd left something for them. "So, not a bazooka."

"Nope."

"Wow."

"Uh-huh."

Silence fell once again as they both retreated into their own thoughts. Sam shook his head in disbelief. Of course, their father hadn't given them any kind of heads up. John Winchester had never hinted, whether to a hunter, a mark, an informant, or his son. He'd either told you or he hadn't.

"What do you think is on it?"

Dean wasn't looking at him when he asked, and Sam did him the courtesy of the same. When you spent practically every waking moment together, sometimes privacy just meant playing a game of purposely ignoring the person who was two feet from you. "Don't know," he said. "Some sort of will?"

"Maybe. Or maybe it's a map to where he buried his secret stash of gold."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Right. We've been sleeping in the crappiest motels known to man for as long as I can remember because Dad had a secret stash of gold."

"Secret stash of Oreos?"

"Yeah, Dean. Dad left us a message from the grave to find cookies."

"It could happen." Dean gave him a sidelong glance. "I've been hiding mine from you for years."

"What?"

"You hit your growth spurt and you could eat your own weight in food. It was self-preservation. I could've starved to death."

"And you're still hiding food because…"

"It's like having a stash of money in case you ever need it."

"You have a stash of money?"

"No," Dean said in that way that totally meant yes.

"I'm gonna choose not to be offended."

"Like you don't have any little secrets?" Dean asked, finally turning to look at him.

Sam actually fought not to flinch. There were always secrets. Some were innocuous, some embarrassing, some painful. It wasn't easy to keep them when you were so rarely alone. It was even harder since the Demon and Cold Oak.

"Whatever it is you're thinking about, I really hope it's more fun than it looks," Dean said, frowning.

"I… It…"

"Save it," Dean said, looking back toward the house with a pained sort of smirk. "You're a sucky liar. Tell me, don't tell me, it's fine. But if you don't and it gets me killed, I _will_ hurt you."

Sam grinned and nodded. "Fair enough."

The Gentrys had arrived home an hour or so earlier. Lights had turned on and off as the couple moved through the house. At the moment, Mr. Gentry seemed to be downstairs watching television, while Mrs. Gentry had gone upstairs to bed. It made for a riveting stakeout. Sam was going to fall asleep if something didn't happen soon.

"Hey." Dean pointed through the windshield toward the house. The dog had appeared around the side. They watched as he made his way onto the porch and then began to climb a set of exterior stairs up to the second-floor verandah.

They both made to open their doors, when movement on the upper porch stopped them. Flickering to life, a ghost who could only be the first Mr. Gentry appeared, standing in the center of the wide verandah. He looked a lot like his brother only taller, more broad-shouldered. The huge dog trotted toward his former master, then stopped several feet away and sat, his head cocked to one side as if listening.

"So much for the possession part. You still sure you didn't see anything weird in the articles about Mr. Gentry's death?" Dean asked quietly.

"He died at home. He'd called in sick, so no one cared when he didn't come into the office. His wife was out of town and they didn't find him for a couple of days, but there wasn't anything else," Sam said. "The guy was sick, he died, and he spent some time decomposing before Terry found him."

"Gross," Dean said, "but not really a reason for him to be walking around on the porch right now."

"And not really a reason for the dog to be following him around," Sam observed. "Animals aren't supposed to like ghosts."

"Except this one's apparently taking orders from one."

Sam and Dean reached for the doors simultaneously. Dean was carrying his sawed-off shotgun. Sam had his handgun, now loaded with iron rounds. He knew Dean probably had something similar on him, too. Salt for the ghost, iron for the dog and/or ghost. As they approached the house, they could hear the ghost speaking to the dog, but the words weren't discernable.

Dean motioned toward the stairs but then stopped, studying the wooden steps. Sam could tell he was unhappy. Wooden steps meant noise. Noise meant they knew you were coming.

Above them, the dog suddenly barked, and they heard him move away toward the far end of the porch. Hamlet continued to bark but quietly, almost like he was talking to himself, and Dean immediately took advantage of the noise to vault up the steps onto the upper landing. Sam quickly followed.

Hamlet was at the opposite end of the porch barking over the railing, his back to them. Sam and Dean walked closer, warily keeping an eye on the dog. The ghost was nowhere to be seen.

Sam saw a hint of movement to his right and turned, only to see empty space. He caught more movement, this time to his left. Sam quickly turned the other way, only to have the ghost disappear again. "It's here."

"It's here," Dean echoed, and Sam saw him turning as well, trying to keep up with the ghost as it appeared and then evaporated before they could do more than catch a glimpse of it. They ended up back-to-back, each with a weapon poised but with nothing to aim at. "It's gone," Dean said, although it sounded more like a question than a statement.

The dog was no longer barking, and it began to pad toward them. At the same time, the door leading into the house burst open and a man and woman appeared. Mr. Gentry looked startled, while his wife openly gaped and then began to back into the house, away from the gunmen on her porch.

"What is the meaning of this?" Mr. Gentry bellowed.

"Animal Control," Sam said breathlessly.

"The dog's back," Dean added, and finally Mr. Gentry noticed that the dog was only a few feet from him, staring daggers, if a dog was capable of staring daggers. Dean kept his gun leveled on the animal. "Back up, Mr. Gentry. Back away from the dog. Slowly."

Sam, too, turned to face the dog that was now starting to growl and advance on Mr. Gentry. Sam raised his gun, ready to fire if the dog lunged, and almost immediately a wave of cold washed over him.

"Hamlet has work to do. He must avenge me," the ghost suddenly hissed in his ear. Sam recoiled from the direction of the sound, frustrated that he was still unable to see anything.

"Sam?" Dean said worriedly, taking his eyes off the dog for a moment to glance at him.

Sam stumbled as something invisible seemed to ram him from the side. He just managed to right himself, and mentally cursed his added height that made him so much easier to knock off balance.

Dean turned, now ignoring the dog in favor of protecting Sam. "What's goin' on, man?" he demanded.

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but once again something rammed into him, this time a full body check, pushing him toward the porch railing. Another furious blow caught him behind the ear, and he barely had a chance to process what was happening before there was nothing below him but air.

"Sam!"

His head pounding, Sam blinked to clear his vision, only to feel his shoulder and arm screaming in agony.

"Sam, freakin' pay attention!" Dean shouted.

Sam nearly panicked when he realized the ghost had knocked him over the side of the porch. He looked up to see Dean above him, straining over the railing, using both hands around his wrist to keep him from falling.

"Give me your other hand, Sammy," Dean ordered, breathing heavily. Mr. Gentry appeared over the railing, too, trying to help. Sam reached up with his other hand, but in order to do that, he had to put more strain on Dean's grip. Dean managed, though, holding on to him for all he was worth, allowing Mr. Gentry to do what he could until the three men ended up in a pile on the porch.

Dean sat up first, examining Sam in the light now pouring through the glass doors from what appeared to be Mrs. Gentry's bedroom. "You okay?" he asked, still gasping for breath.

"Yeah," Sam said. He brought a hand up to feel an angry knot already forming where he'd been clouted. "I don't think he wants us messing with the dog. He said the dog has work to do."

"He?" Mr. Gentry asked.

Dean ignored their would-be employer. "You sure you're okay?" He picked up Sam's arm and carefully felt it. "That was your bad wrist I was hauling on."

Sam patiently endured the examination, wincing slightly. The wrist still wasn't one hundred percent although the cast was long gone. Bones just never really forgave you for breaking them.

"You're bleeding," Mr. Gentry said, his voice high and strained.

"Where?" Dean demanded, dropping Sam's arm and looking him over again.

"Not him, you." Mr. Gentry pointed at Dean's back, and Dean reached a hand behind him. The claw marks, Sam knew. Dean had torn them open again leaning over the railing to pull him up.

"I'm fine," Dean said. Then, as if just remembering, Dean looked around them worriedly. "Where's the dog?"

"He's right here. He's fine." It was a woman's voice, and Sam and Dean both looked up.

Connie was a beautiful woman. Even looking as tired and troubled as she was, Mrs. Gentry was stunning. She was wearing an expensive nightgown and matching robe, her dark hair falling softly around her shoulders. Hamlet was sitting beside her, as calm and pretty as you please. He was tall enough that Connie had her hand on the dog's head, rubbing absently at the animal's ears. The dog, however, was staring at Mr. Gentry, as if daring him to come any closer.

"Is everyone all right?" Terry came up the stairs huffing and puffing, obviously having run from his own home. "I heard the dog barking and then all the shouting."

"Fine," Dean said. He got to his feet, although he groaned like he was eighty years old. He then held out a hand to help Sam up. Sam noted he did not help Mr. Gentry stand. Sam couldn't say he was feeling particularly generous toward the guy right now, either. He'd left out a few important facts, and they'd just gotten Sam tossed off the second floor.

"All right, Coop," Dean faced Mr. Gentry, "I think it's safe to say the dog isn't the real problem."

"What?"

"How did your brother die?"

"What?" the man said again, glowering furiously now.

Dean looked at Connie, who was staring at him open-mouthed. "One of you better start talking, and I mean fast. How did Roy die?"

"We don't know," Mrs. Gentry said, her voice barely above a whisper. She pulled her hand away from Hamlet and crossed her arms.

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

"He wasn't feeling well before Connie left on her trip, but beyond that we really aren't sure," Mr. Gentry supplied.

"How can you not know?" Dean asked, his frustration showing.

Mr. Gentry glanced at his wife anxiously and then back at Dean. "We don't know because there wasn't enough left of him to make a real determination."

Sam felt his stomach drop, his eyes traveling in spite of himself toward Hamlet. "Hamlet was in the house with the body?"

"Yes."

"For three days," Terry added. "Ate a good hunk of him."

Dean was now looking at Hamlet, too. "Bad dog," he said. "Very. Bad. Dog."

* * *

_More tomorrow…_


	4. Chapter 4

**Not Where He Eats**

Summary: Sam and Dean are asked to take care of a little problem with a dog…

_So… a little icky… But these things happen. On we go!_

Chapter Four

* * *

_A bloody deed - almost as bad, good mother, as kill a king and marry with his brother._

_- Hamlet, Act III, Scene iv_

"You're joking, right?" Sam asked, his voice sounding strangled.

"No," Mr. Gentry said tersely. "Not joking."

Connie looked like she might start crying at any given second and wrapped her arms more tightly around herself. Dean noticed that, interestingly enough, Mr. Gentry hadn't gone to his wife to comfort her.

"Was there anything suspicious about the death?" Dean asked them. "Roy wasn't feeling well. Anything odd about that?"

"Of course not!" Mrs. Gentry said indignantly. "And what does that have to do with anything?"

"Hamlet, here, is pissed at you people. All of you. And Roy is the one egging him on," Dean explained. "My guess is that Roy is even more pissed off than the dog. The question is why."

"Are you insane?"

"Lady, you're standing there petting a dog that _ate_ your husband, and I'm the one with issues?" Dean had no clue how they had continued to live with the dog in the house day in and day out after something like that.

"He didn't understand!" Connie said, tears spilling over now. "He's just a dog. He was…hungry." She stumbled over the last word.

Dean glanced over at Sam, who looked not too far from barfing.

"What does this have to do with anything?" Mr. Gentry demanded. "The dog needs to be removed from here. You two take care of it."

Dean looked at the man. "Do _you_ think there was anything suspicious about your brother's death?"

Mr. Gentry met his gaze but couldn't hold it. Dean felt like growling himself. Everyone they'd talked to said Hamlet had a special dislike of Mr. Gentry. He'd done something. Dean could feel it. He didn't know what, but Roy was hanging around because of it.

"Where's your brother buried?" Dean asked.

"What?" Connie asked, freshly appalled. "He was cremated."

Dean nodded. It was probably for the best. Not exactly an open casket kind of funeral.

"Dean, that wouldn't do any good anyway," Sam said, and Dean turned around to look at him.

"Why not?"

Sam nodded in Hamlet's direction. "The body's…not all there."

Dean felt himself deflate as Sam's meaning dawned on him. "The dog." Dean ran his hand over his face in frustration. Could this case get any more disgusting? "He crapped Roy all over the back yard."

Connie gasped, and Mr. Gentry finally stepped protectively between her and Dean. "I beg your pardon!"

"You oughta," Dean said. "You know what happened to your brother, and until we deal with that, you're gonna be having problems in this house, dog or not."

"I don't know what you mean," the man said huffily. Dean had seen a lot of guilty people, and this guy stank to high heaven.

Sam moved to stand beside Dean, his superior height cowing the man. "I think you do. What did you do to Roy?" Sam asked. "He said the dog is supposed to _avenge_ him. Hamlet is after you for a reason."

"My brother was sick!" Mr. Gentry said. "He was sick and he died! That's all!"

"The fact that Roy's still wandering around out here says differently," Dean stated.

"You're insane," Mr. Gentry said angrily. "I want you off my property now. I'm going inside. If you two aren't gone in five minutes, I'm calling the police."

"You really want the cops out here?" Dean cocked his head to one side. "You want them to hear our little theory?"

"Get out!" the man stormed. "Get off my property!"

Hamlet barked, moving toward Mr. Gentry, who immediately retreated. Hamlet barked again, the noise making Dean's ears ring, it was so loud. Mr. Gentry hurried inside the house, slamming the door behind him. Hamlet subsided, though he turned in a circle and sat so he was now facing his mistress.

"Mrs. Gentry, we need answers and we need them fast," Dean said.

"I don't understand," she said, wiping tears from her cheeks. "You're from Animal Control. Why are you so interested in all of this?"

Dean nearly rolled his eyes. The woman had seen Sam thrown off her porch by something invisible and still thought they were just dogcatchers. "Mrs. Gentry, your husband may have done something to… your other husband," he said.

The woman shook her head vehemently. "Cooper would never do anything like that. He loved Roy."

"You two married pretty fast…" Dean let the statement hang.

"Coop was there for me when Roy died," she said defensively. "He took care of all the arrangements. He took care of me. He-"

"He killed his brother so he could have you. Or the job. Maybe both," Dean stated flatly. He knew it was harsh, but the truth was the truth. She'd married her husband's murderer.

"How dare you say such a thing? I don't have to listen to this." She turned to go back inside, but the dog leapt to bar the way, refusing to let her leave.

"Hamlet, what are you doing?"

"Your husband was murdered. That's why his ghost is still here. It's why Hamlet is acting so crazy."

"Murdered? Just stop right there." She jabbed a finger in his direction. "I don't want to hear this. Cooper is a good man."

"No," Dean said firmly. He could feel his last bit of patience leaving. There was no excuse for a man who would kill his brother for such petty reasons. Brothers supported each other, protected each other, fought like…well, like demons to keep the other alive and happy. Dean had dealt with more than any brother should _ever_ have to and he'd managed somehow. A jerk like Mr. Gentry could certainly figure out how not to whack his brother over a job or a woman. "Mrs. Gentry, your husband's the bad guy. You're sleeping with the enemy." Hamlet barked, and Dean would have sworn the mutt was agreeing with him.

"Just stop," she said, her chest heaving, breathing like she was trying not to pass out.

"Look, you're the one who married him. You had to know something was up," Dean pressed, not bothering to hide that he thought she bore some of the blame for the mess they were all in. You didn't let something freaky happen to your family and not do something about it. You moved heaven and earth if you had to.

"No, I… Coop was so helpful… so kind…"

"Your husband gets eaten while you're out of town, and you practically jump his brother?"

"Dean," Sam said, warning in his tone. But freakishly, the dog seemed to be nodding. Hamlet began to move toward Connie, his posture less than friendly.

"I mean, come on," Dean said recklessly. "Marrying your husband's brother… That's a little too close to home, isn't it?"

"Please stop," she almost begged.

Hamlet barked savagely. Connie clapped her hands over her ears and backed up until she was pressed against the doors leading into the house. The dog barked again, growling and baring his teeth.

"You two, do something!" Terry ordered. He picked up a chair to use like a lion tamer. "Help her!"

Hamlet turned his great, ugly head toward Terry, snarling at the attempted intervention. He jumped, slamming into the man, and knocked him to the floor. Terry fell, his head making a wet, smacking sound as it connected with the wooden chair he'd been using, then he landed in a limp pile with Hamlet standing over him. The dog looked down at the injured man almost sorrowfully and licked his face. If Dean didn't know better, he'd have said the dog was trying to apologize.

"Hamlet, what have you done?" Connie asked, horrified.

The dog's head snapped back up at the sound of her voice, zeroing in on Connie, and a low growl rose in his throat. Dean kept his gun trained on the dog, his finger already tightening to fire, when the hair at the nape of his neck began to prickle and Dean felt himself freeze in place, unable to move. He couldn't even turn his head to see if the same was true for Sam. He could see that Mr. Gentry, the first Mr. Gentry, was standing between Connie and Hamlet, shaking his head.

"Remember your purpose," the ghost rasped, his eyes on the dog.

Hamlet immediately stood down, chastened by his former master. Satisfied, the ghost vanished again. The dog sniffed the air and whined, looking this way and that for Roy's ghost, then dropped his head sorrowfully, accepting that he was gone. Hamlet spared his mistress one last look and huffed, the breath flapping his cheeks. He then turned back to Terry. The dog sank his teeth into the man's collar and began dragging him toward the stairs.

The doors Connie was still leaning against banged open suddenly. Connie stumbled forward, running into Dean, who in turn ran into Sam like a set of human dominoes. As they all righted themselves, they saw Mr. Gentry standing in the open doorway, a handgun aimed in their direction.

"I told you to get off my property and I meant it!" he shouted.

Whatever had been holding them frozen in place, the spell was broken. Rather than listening to him, they turned back toward the steps to see that Terry and the dog were already gone. Sam leaned over the porch railing and pointed just in time for them to see Hamlet dragging Terry down the last step.

"Get away from there," Mr. Gentry shouted.

"But Te-"

"Shut up!" he yelled. "I ask you to do one simple little thing, and it turns into this! What do you morons think you're doing?"

"We have to help Terry," Dean said evenly. "He's hurt and Hamlet's dragging him off somewhere."

"I'll deal with that. You two get out of here. _Now_."

"What if he eats him?" Dean asked.

"That's not funny," the man snarled.

"It wasn't meant to be," Dean shot back. "We don't have time for this."

Everyone on the porch turned at the sound of a scream. "Dad! Hamlet, no!"

Sam and Dean looked out and saw Sophie standing in the yard near the swimming pool. She began to run after the dog, only to stumble over a piece of pool furniture. Sophie fell heavily and toppled into the pool, immediately sinking below the surface.

Sam and Dean hurtled down the steps. Sophie had yet to come up, and Dean was already throwing off his jacket as he ran. "You go after Terry!" he ordered. He didn't wait for a response, but he sensed Sam falling back, looking for which way the dog had gone.

Sophie still wasn't surfacing. Dean set Marigold on the pool deck. She was his favorite shotgun, and there was no way he was going to let her get wet if he could help it. The pistol tucked into his waistband quickly followed, then Dean dove in headfirst. It was too late in the year for a swim, and the water was freezing. The cold hit him like he'd slammed into a brick wall, forcing the air out of his lungs, and he had to fight not to suck in a breath full of pool water.

There were several underwater lights and, as he swam toward her, Dean could see the water turning a faint pink around Sophie, floating limp and lifeless near the bottom. The pool had to be close to ten feet deep. His lungs were burning and his ears pounding from the pressure by the time Dean put his arm around her and kicked off from the pool bottom to hurry their ascent. The movement jarred his back and he instinctively twisted, losing the momentum he'd had. The result was that he was forced to work harder to pull the woman's dead weight upward.

Dean burst into the night air and sucked in a huge lungful. Waiting hands took Sophie from him and lifted her out onto the pool surround. Dean looked up and realized it was Sam who was helping him.

"Where's the dog?" Dean asked, still gasping as the cold water continued to lap at him in the disturbed pool.

"No clue," Sam said. He reached out a hand to Dean to pull him up. "Ran off somewhere. Dragged Terry with him."

"Dog's a freakin' menace," Dean said angrily. "He's gotta be stopped."

The moment he said it, Dean felt fingers wrap around his ankle like a vise. Sam must have seen the change on his face because he tightened his grip on Dean's hand. It didn't do any good. The fingers around his ankle jerked him under the water, and Dean's hand slipped through Sam's fingers.

Dean thrashed furiously, but there was nothing visible to fight against. He wasn't dragged down to the bottom where he might have a chance to try to kick off. He was held very securely about two feet below the surface. For a few seconds he saw Sam's face above the water, and then he disappeared.

Dean could feel himself fading. He'd used up all his oxygen in the first attempt to free himself. His vision was going, and the instinct to take a breath was nearly overwhelming. Dean heard a strange noise, _plink plink plink_, against the water's surface and distantly wondered if it had started to rain.

* * *

_More soon…_


	5. Chapter 5

**Not Where He Eats**

Summary: Sam and Dean are asked to take care of a little problem with a dog…

_So when last we talked, Dean was drowning. Let's see what Sam can do about that…_

Chapter Five

* * *

_Let Hercules himself do what he may, the cat will mew, and dog will have his day._

_- Hamlet, Act V, Scene i_

"Dean!" Sam lay down on the side of the pool and reached into the water, but Dean was just out of reach, fighting for all he was worth to free himself from whatever was holding him under. Sam's first instinct was to jump in after him, but reason told him that would only end with both of them drowned.

"What's going on?" Mr. Gentry asked, fear and confusion turning to panic.

"Salt!"

"What?"

"I need salt! Lots of it!"

"Are you kidding?"

"My brother's drowning. Do I look like I'm kidding?" Sam snapped. "Table salt, or…salt you use on the sidewalks. Anything! Hurry!"

Mr. Gentry left at a run, and Sam frantically turned back to Dean. His thrashing movements had turned sluggish, and Sam could see him failing in front of his eyes.

Sophie moaned, but Sam couldn't bring himself to care. He'd made sure she was breathing and that was good enough for now. He would deal with anything else after he saved Dean.

Mr. Gentry came running back from the house carrying a large plastic bag. Sam barely took the time to register that it was salt pellets meant for a water softener before he tore the bag open and dumped it into the pool over Dean.

Sam held his breath, praying the salt would work. All he needed was a moment of hesitation on the ghost's part to pull Dean free. It was taking too long, though, and Dean wasn't struggling anymore, just making a few halfhearted movements. Sam stood. He was going in. If it drowned him, too, then so be it. He wouldn't leave Dean to die alone in the pool without trying.

Just as he was about to dive in, he saw Dean begin to drift. Sam immediately dropped back down and moved so he was hanging over the edge as far as he could. He plunged his head below the water and reached for Dean, catching a sleeve. Sam held on for dear life and tugged until he could grab an arm instead of just the shirt.

He pulled him closer, but then Dean just stopped, and for several seconds it was a deadly game of tug of war. The ghost wasn't strong enough, however, as the salt dissolved into the water. Sam gave a last-ditch pull before he would have to come up for air, and Dean came loose.

Sam wrapped an arm around his brother's chest beneath his arms. The pressure on his ribs pushed the last of the air out of Dean's lungs to form bubbles floating to the surface, but Sam shoved the troubling detail aside. First things first. They both needed to be out of the water.

Sam came up gasping, but didn't stop to savor the sensation of air meeting his oxygen-starved lungs. Using every bit of strength he had left, he pulled Dean up and out of the pool. Sam rolled him onto his side and saw only a trickle of water emerge from Dean's mouth. Sam laid him back flat and mercilessly dug his knuckles into his brother's breastbone.

Almost instantly, Dean sucked in a huge, gasping breath and raised his hands to his chest. Sam nearly sobbed as he sat back on his heels while his brother coughed and panted. He shoved his sopping hair out of his eyes and scanned Dean from head to foot for signs of any other injury. He was relieved to find none, but Sam stayed close enough to reassure himself of Dean's continued well-being. Mr. Gentry was gone again and the dog was nowhere in sight, so they remained that way for several moments, ignoring everything else while they caught their breath.

"You okay?" Sam finally asked.

"Breathing is good," Dean said, his voice rough. He groaned as he worked his way into a sitting position.

They both turned at the sound of running steps coming from the house. A young man appeared and rushed toward them, but Sam could tell he wasn't looking at them.

"Sophie!" The young man hurried past them and knelt beside the still-unconscious woman. "Sophie, are you okay?"

"She fell into the pool," Sam offered. "Scraped herself up when she tripped over the lounger and hit the pool deck." The blood he'd seen in the pool was coming from a gash on her hand, although Sam suspected she'd hit her head, too.

"Who are you?" Dean asked.

"I'm Nick." The man frowned, turning to look at them for the first time. "Sophie's my sister. Who are you?"

"Animal Control," Dean answered. "Much good we're doing."

"You're here for the dog? Dad asked me to come home early, said something happened with Sophie and Hamlet."

"You live here, too?"

"Paris."

"France?"

Nick gave Dean a look that said he was an idiot. "Kentucky."

Mr. Gentry reappeared from the house with a towel, running toward them. "Here, Nick." He handed the towel to the other man, who quickly wrapped it around his sister's bleeding hand. No towels for the half-drowned dogcatchers, Sam noticed. He was starting to think Mr. Gentry didn't really care whether his employees lived or died. Unless they were going to muck up his pool, that was. Sam got to his feet and then helped Dean, who was a little shaky but still managed to stay upright.

"Let's get Sophie inside," Mr. Gentry urged.

Nick scooped up his sister and headed toward the house. Connie was standing by the door and waved for him to hurry, then went inside with him, Mr. Gentry following close behind.

"What are we gonna do?" Sam asked.

"We can't burn the body," Dean replied, "and the dog crapped half the remains all over this yard."

"That's kinda like cremation," Sam said.

"Digestion, cremation…," Dean said thoughtfully. "Somehow I don't think so."

"So what do we do?"

"We could burn the yard?"

"You think the cops aren't gonna notice if we salt and burn the entire lawn?" Sam shot back. "And that doesn't even guarantee we'll get the whole body."

"So then what?"

"I, uh…" Sam grimaced.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Dean shook his head.

Sophie's brother came back out of the house, followed by Mr. Gentry. "I want that dog put down," Nick said harshly. "I told you that when it first happened, and now my sister's out of it and the dog's dragged off my father. I don't care if it's Connie's _baby_, I want him dead."

"That can be arranged," Mr. Gentry said calmly.

A low growl came from behind them, and both men turned to look. Hamlet appeared out of the shadows beneath the stairs and began stalking toward them. They backed away, while Hamlet continued to move forward, pushing them farther out into the yard.

Sam picked up his gun while Dean did the same. Connie came out of the house and gasped at the scene unfolding in front of her.

"Hamlet, no!"

Nick was pushing Mr. Gentry back, standing between him and the dog. "Nick, get back," Sam shouted. The dog really wasn't after Nick, but judging from what had happened to Terry, Sam knew Hamlet wouldn't mind going through someone else to get to his intended victim.

"I'll take care of this," Nick said. He pulled a large pocketknife from his jeans and opened it. "You stay back, Mr. Gentry."

Hamlet began to circle, and Nick turned with him. Nick lunged and the dog stepped back. Hamlet attacked and Nick retreated, dueling for position.

Sam started to raise his gun, then felt the same prickling sensation he'd felt earlier when the ghost had stopped them from shooting the dog. He was once again frozen in place, unable to do anything more than watch.

"It is justice," he heard the ghost hiss, although Sam couldn't see it. "Do not interfere. Hamlet must do his duty."

"Nick, stop this," Connie begged. "Hamlet, come here!" Neither the man nor the animal paid her any attention, however, each intent only on the other.

Nick missed a step, and the dog darted forward, taking the opportunity to nip at him.

"You okay? Looked like he got you," Mr. Gentry called.

"No," Nick said angrily. "I'm fine." But Sam could see a hint of blood on the man's hand, the one not holding the knife.

The dog sprang forward again and managed to take a bite out of the man's leg. Nick cried out painfully while Hamlet crowed in exultation, once again moving out of striking distance.

"He get you?" Mr. Gentry asked needlessly.

"Yeah," Nick said through gritted teeth, as if loath to admit it.

"He's too fast," Mr. Gentry said. "Get out of the way. I'll have to just shoot him."

"I've got this!" Nick nearly snarled. Hamlet paid no attention, still moving in a circle, stalking his quarry.

It all happened in a flurry of motion. Mr. Gentry raised his pistol and swung around to get a clear shot at the dog as he and Nick continued to circle each other. Mr. Gentry took aim and fired.

He realized too late that Connie was standing directly behind Hamlet. The bullet zinged past the dog and, to Sam's horror, caught her instead. It spun her around and she crashed to the ground.

"Connie, no!" Mr. Gentry cried.

Sam strained furiously, trying to free himself from the ghost's grip. He felt more than saw Dean doing the same, but it was useless. Hamlet's master was not about to let them meddle in his vengeance.

Nick gasped, turning to see what had happened, and Hamlet used the distraction to strike. The Great Dane's huge mouth closed on the man's arm, tearing into the flesh and bringing the stunned man down. Hamlet shook his head, jerking Nick this way and that, his arm trapped in the dog's powerful maw. Dean grunted, renewing his struggle to free himself, as Nick frantically brought up his other hand and plunged the knife into the dog's side, over and over, until finally the dog staggered and released him.

Nick fell back to the ground and didn't move while the wounded dog turned, its eyes only on Mr. Gentry. Sam could hear the sucking chest wound even from where he was standing. The dog didn't have long.

Hamlet seemed to know it, too. They saw the muscles bunching for the final attack. He knocked Mr. Gentry down and sent the gun flying out of his hand. Then the dog sank his teeth into the man's throat. Hamlet jerked his head back, tearing flesh away. Sam could see he'd hit an artery, and blood began pouring from the wound, pumping out onto the surrounding grass.

"H…Help me!"

Sam immediately felt himself being released. He knew Dean was free, too, seeing him drop his gun to his side. Neither of them moved. There was no purpose to it now. The train was already off the tracks, and all they could do was be witnesses to the wreck.

The ghost appeared beside the dog and laid his hand gently on his head, petting him. Mr. Gentry looked up in horror at the sight of his dead brother standing over him.

"You killed me," the ghost rasped. "Your own brother."

"Shot you," the dying man said. "You're…dead."

"Hamlet has avenged me," the ghost said. "It is enough."

"Shot you," Mr. Gentry said again, blood still spurting in time with his heartbeat. "Dog…ate…the evidence."

"You thought you would not be punished," Roy said, nodding. "But Hamlet is mine. He would not serve an unworthy master. Not when you had so unjustly taken what did not belong to you."

Dean snorted, and Sam turned to glare at him. "What?"

"Is there a reason that ghosts always sound like an eighty year-old English professor?"

"Dean…"

"Well, they do. You die and all of a sudden you're Shakespeare's love child."

"Dean!" He turned to give his brother another disparaging look, to see that Dean had his cell phone out, already dialing 9-1-1.

"This is the Gentry residence where the mayor lives. I don't know the address. We need an ambulance. Several, actually." Sam heard the person on the other end of the phone asking questions, but Dean was already shaking his head. "The dog's attacked the mayor and two other people. Sophie's half-drowned and Mrs. Gentry's been shot." Sam heard the person's voice rise sharply, asking another slew of questions, but Dean just closed the phone. "We need to leave."

Sam looked back to see that Mr. Gentry was barely breathing, the blood flowing from his neck slower now, only because most of it was already in the grass. His brother still stood over him. The ghost didn't speak, however, simply stood and watched as his murderer's life drained away.

Hamlet had been standing at his master's side, the chest wound making that awful sucking sound as the dog tried to breathe through his damaged lungs. He stumbled away and then collapsed, his back legs falling first followed by his front, until he was lying on his side.

The ghost looked down at the dog and nodded his approval. Sam didn't know if he was proud of a job well done or perhaps satisfied that the dog that had eaten him was being punished, too. The ghost flickered one last time and then was gone. The poor dog, bereft at being left by Roy yet again, let out a terrible mournful cry that was painful to hear.

"Sam, check on Connie," Dean said, starting forward.

Sam nodded and quickly strode past the dog to the woman. She was lying on her back. The bullet had caught her shoulder and didn't look more than skin deep. The poison of knowing her second husband had killed her first had done far more damage. She was awake, her eyes open and blinking as she looked at the sky, but Sam could see no one was home. "Just lie still," he said, not surprised when there was no reaction. "The ambulance will be here soon."

Sam glanced briefly toward Nick, but he too seemed stable enough to leave until the emergency personnel arrived. Now that he was closer to the house, Sam could also see Terry lying where Hamlet had stashed him below the stairs, but he could also wait for help. Sam turned away from them and back to the dog, knowing exactly where he would find his brother.

Dean was sitting on the ground, one leg stretched out along Hamlet's back, the other bent and supporting the dog's head in his lap. As Sam approached, he could hear Dean speaking lowly to the dying animal.

"Don't worry, boy," he said gruffly. "It'll be over soon. You did a good job." Dean was gently running his fingers over the dog's head and ears. "He was real proud of you. You caught the bad guy."

Sam's heart nearly broke as he watched Dean comfort the dog. Sam knew what he was seeing, whether Dean realized it or not. It wasn't a man and a dog. It was one soldier comforting another. Sam saw two warriors with no choice but to follow their instincts and their masters' orders, even though it had killed one of them, might kill the other, too, in the end. Sam listened as Dean repeated the words over and over again. _It'll be over soon. You did a good job. He was real proud of you. You caught the bad guy._ Was that what Dean wanted to hear in his last moments? Was that what he would _need_ to hear when the time came?

"It's all right," Dean whispered. "You did good, boy. We know what really happened." The dog whimpered pitifully, and Dean just continued to smooth his hand through the dog's fur, making soothing nonsense noises, as the dog weakened.

It was over quickly. The dog's labored breathing was loud in Sam's ears, and then it just stopped and all that remained was silence.

Dean rose, gently setting the dog's head on the grass. Without a word, he and Sam headed for the car.

* * *

_More tomorrow…_


	6. Chapter 6

**Not Where He Eats**

Summary: Sam and Dean are asked to take care of a little problem with a dog…

_A gigantic thank you for each and every review. I realize this one was a little, uhh… bizarre, with the Hamlet re-write, etc (a nice way of saying plagiarism)…So, thanks for reading!_

Chapter Six

* * *

_List, list, O, list! If thou didst ever thy dear father love—_

_- Hamlet, Act I, Scene v_

Dean woke abruptly to the sound of a knock on the motel room door. After a hot shower, a quick bandage job, and some dry clothes, he and Sam had fallen into bed. It had taken Dean a while to drown out the sounds of Hamlet's death, but eventually he'd found the oblivion sleep brought.

At the sound of another knock on the door, Dean reluctantly rose to see who it was. He sincerely hoped they hadn't been tracked to the motel. Still, no one really knew who they were, and it hadn't been a police sort of knock. Those were always angrier and came with a lot of shouting.

Dean opened the door to see the desk clerk who'd checked them in the day before.

"Got something for you."

Dean started to tell the clerk he'd made a mistake, but stopped when he realized what the man was carrying. It was a small package covered in bright _Overnight Delivery_ stickers.

"It says _Emergency. Deliver immediately_, so I decided to walk it down," the desk clerk said. "You guys okay?"

"It's medicine," Dean replied with a quick reassuring smile. "My brother and I are on a trip and he ran out."

"Dean?"

He turned to see Sam sitting up, rubbing his eyes sleepily. "Don't worry, Sammy. They sent your meds," Dean assured him.

"Great," Sam grunted and flopped back down on the bed now that he knew it was nothing serious.

"Thanks for bringing it down," Dean said, turning back to the clerk. He handed the man a bill from his pocket, not even bothering to look at what it was as he took the small package from him. It must have been more than the clerk was expecting because he made a little noise of surprise, said "Thanks!" a bit too brightly, then took off as if Dean might change his mind.

Dean barely even registered it. He ran his fingers over the mailing label on the package, written in Bobby's blocky handwriting. Dean wasn't sure whether or not to be thankful Bobby had sent it so quickly.

"What is it?" Sam asked, his voice sleep-roughened.

"It's from Bobby."

Sam immediately sat back up, realizing what Dean was holding. "I didn't expect him to get it here so fast."

"Me, either," Dean answered, his eyes still on the small package.

"It's not gonna explode, man," Sam said carefully.

"You sure about that?"

Sam smiled grimly. "Bobby has a habit of dousing everything with holy water just for fun."

Dean gave a light huff of a laugh. "That he does." Deciding he was being a wuss, especially since Sam was looking at him like he might have a breakdown, Dean ripped through the tape and opened the small package.

It contained only what Bobby had said it would. There was no note, no explanation, nothing, only a plain disc in a plastic case. Not even a label or anything written on it. Dean pulled it out and threw the packaging into the nearest garbage can.

He jumped when Sam took the disc from his hand. He hadn't even heard his brother get off the bed or walk over. Sam simply popped the disc out of its case and walked to the laptop sitting on the dresser opposite the beds.

Dean's first reaction was to stop him, to stall somehow. He wasn't sure what was on the disc, was almost afraid to see. It had taken him so long to not have a near meltdown just at the thought of Dad, that this new bit of… whatever it was… He just needed some time, some space, some… He didn't know what else.

"We'll just watch it and then we'll see," Sam said roughly. For the first time, Dean looked at his brother, and he could see the sudden strain, the tension in his shoulders. This was worrying Sam as much as him.

Just the mention of their father was still almost more than either of them could stand, and now Dad had managed to throw a wrench in the works long after his own death. Only he could reach out from the grave and manage to give them another reason to be screwed up.

Dean sat down on the end of the bed. Sam slipped the disc into the computer, then backed up to stand beside Dean between the two beds.

It felt like forever as the computer read the disc. Finally, a small window opened to play the video.

All they could see was a motel room, not unlike the one where they were staying. A chair sat in the middle of the frame, and they could hear the faint scratching noises of someone fiddling with the video camera. After several seconds, the scrabbling noises stopped and a figure moved into view walking toward the chair.

Before he even saw his face, Dean knew it was his father. He'd spent too many years studying his dad's every nuance, seen him in action and depended on knowing how he would react, not to know the man at a glance.

The person on the screen turned and sat down in the chair. Dean noticed a slight hesitation and knew he was wounded. His father was long gone now, and still Dean winced to know his dad had been alone and hurt with no one to help him. That was his choice, however, not Dean's, and he worked to keep the latent anger at bay. It was beyond useless now.

Dean wondered when the video had been taken. There was no date or time stamp. His father looked tired, gaunt even, and was unshaven, more so than normal.

Their dad cleared his throat, uncomfortable in front of the camera. "Hello, boys."

Dean didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He had a momentary urge to glance up at Sam, but couldn't bear to take his eyes away from the screen. It was the same low, gravelly voice Dean remembered, the soundtrack to his entire youth just as much as _Zeppelin_ or _Rush_ had ever been.

"I decided to make this after…well, I ran into a little trouble." Dean knew that was Dad-speak for he'd almost been killed. It must have been more than close if it had prompted him to make the video. "The thing that killed your mom…" Dean watched his father shift in the chair and wince slightly. "I'm getting real close and it doesn't like it. If you're watching this, it's because…well, I guess it got me before I could get it."

Dean could almost hear the echo of Sam's words when they'd been talking to Ellen at the Roadhouse. _It just got him before he got it, I guess._

"I want you to go to Bobby. It wasn't pretty the last time I saw him, but he's a good man. A good hunter. He'll help you. I guess I wasn't able to close the deal, so it's up to you now. This thing has cost us too much to let it go." Their father's eyes were boring into the camera, as if he could see his sons and bend them to his will. "Good luck, boys."

Their father rose from the chair, once again with a slight hesitation as the movement aggravated whatever injuries he had, and walked to the camera. Once again there were noises as he fiddled with the buttons to shut the camera off, and that was that. The video stopped, and Dean was left staring at nothing.

A ghost from the past was what he was. A ghost asking his sons to avenge his death, to stop the thing that had defiled his wife, their mother.

Dean heard Sam sit down on the other bed and turned to look at him. He was shaking his head in disbelief. He turned his head, and Dean saw him brush a stray tear away. Sam always had been a crier.

Dean couldn't help it. He laughed. He fell back on the bed, his legs still hanging off, and he laughed.

"Dean?" Sam asked worriedly.

Dean just kept laughing. It was too ridiculous. Their father had had a chance to impart some final piece of wisdom, some parting message, some great insight into life, and this was what he did. He hadn't even put in a stray, _Take care of Sammy_.

"Dean, stop it!" Sam said angrily. "If you're gonna freak out, could you do it somewhere else?"

Dean turned his head to see his brother looking thunderous, and he immediately sobered. "Sam, the first thing we did when things went south was go to Bobby. He's the only reason we got the video in the first place. Not to mention Yellow Eyes is dead. Did Dad really think that if he died, we were just gonna walk away?"

Sam just stared at him for several seconds. Then he sighed and his mouth turned up in a wry twist. "Same old Dad, huh?"

Dean nodded, the urge to laugh creeping up again. "Talk your leg off, couldn't he?" Dean said and was rewarded with a small smile. It was okay. He and Sam had already done what their dad wanted them to do. They'd already taken care of his last wishes without even having to be told.

Neither of them mentioned the cost of following their father's orders. It was too glaringly obvious what it had cost them. It had cost lives, souls. It had cost almost everything they had and more. They were still paying the price.

Sam stood and put the DVD back in its plastic case. Dean knew he would put it someplace safe. It wasn't like they had a family photo album. Those few seconds of video, it was a portrait of their father in miniature. It was precious, more precious than a secret stash of gold could ever be.

"You hungry?" Dean asked.

Sam turned and looked at him, surprised. "I could eat, I guess."

"Good, 'cause you still owe me."

"How do you figure that?"

"You lost. Loser pays. It's the way it works."

"It was hangman, Dean, and you were cheating!" Sam said indignantly.

Dean just grinned. "Prove it."

"It was a four-letter word. I'm pretty sure you know all of them."

"So?"

"So, you changed it while we were playing. I could see it on your face!"

Dean's grin widened. "This poker face?"

Sam narrowed his eyes. "That exact one."

"You're just mad you got hanged."

"If I remember right, you died, too. You just got pissed and called a do-over. _Bad_ habit of yours."

Dean ignored the last part of the jibe. "Like I'm supposed to know the word _deleterious_?"

"It's a perfectly good word," Sam said through his own grin.

"So is _asshead_, but I didn't use it for hangman."

"You'd have just changed it to 'arsenal' or something else until I lost."

"So you admit you lost!"

"Of course I did. You cheated!"

Dean shook his head. "I didn't, you know."

Sam just snorted derisively.

"It's real simple, Sammy. Every dog knows it, even if Mr. Gentry didn't."

"And that would be?"

"You don't crap where you eat."

* * *

_Hope you enjoyed it. Been a pleasure._


End file.
